Drinking Buddies
by Nichol1
Summary: In Elizabethan England, MacBeth finds some unexpected company.


DRINKING BUDDIES  
  
== ==  
  
"Yes, [MacBeth] knew Shakespeare.   
They were drinking buddies. MacBeth  
was amused by the play." -- Greg Weisman.  
  
== ==  
  
DISCLAIMER: The character of MacBeth in "Gargoyles" is copyright Greg  
Weisman and Buena-Vista. The historical MacBeth and Shakespeare belong  
to themselves. No profit is made, so you no sue.  
  
LONDON, ENGLAND, 1600 A.D.  
  
"Thou artless, fly-bitten bugbear!" came a cry from the other end  
of the pub, and there was a loud crashing sound. A half-full tankard went  
flying through the air, smashing into the wall too close to MacBeth's  
head for comfort. It clattered to the floor, leaving a dark brown stain  
dripping down the wall.  
  
"Sirrah!" cried a man with coal-black hair, and only one eye.   
Another man, one with empty hands (and so MacBeth suspected it had been  
he who had thrown the tankard) lept to his feet, brown eyes flashing.  
"Dare to call me so, thou ruttish, pox-marked, scut!"  
  
At this, the black-haired fellow attacked his loudmouthed   
tormentor by launching himself through the air and tackling him. With a  
strangled cry, the two crashed through a table and began snarling and  
grunting as they rolled about on the tavern floor. After a few moments  
of vicious brawling, the auburn-haired man punched out his opponent's  
lights, along with several of his teeth.  
  
As he staggered to his feet, the winner of the fight left his  
unlucky competitor unconscious on the floor. Stumbling a bit, he grabbed  
the corner of MacBeth's table with one hand to steady himself, and gave  
MacBeth himself a rakish smile which was not immediately returned.  
  
"And good e'en to you, sir!" The tall, slender fellow with a  
head full of tossled auburn hair told him. A whore, with loose blonde  
curls and a flirty giggle, plucked at his shirt, but MacBeth swatted her  
away like a fly.  
  
"Good e'en -- verily, it be nearly morning!" he told the man,  
with a rare smile of good humor. His unlikely companion was not fazed at  
all by the correction.  
  
"Good morrow to you, then," said the fellow, a wide grin on his  
florrid face. He swayed slightly on his feet, and even a blind man could  
have seen he was drunk. He staggered into the seat beside MacBeth, not  
waiting for an invitation.  
  
MacBeth handed him another tankard, which the auburn man downed  
in a few quick gulps. Smacking his lips, he turned to MacBeth, held out  
his hand, and said, "Will Shakespeare, at your service, sir."  
  
Taking the offered hand, MacBeth shook it firmly. Perhaps some  
drinking company would do him good. Ale was never as much fun when you  
didn't have someone to get drunk with. "MacBeth".  
  
Shakespeare didn't even blink at the name, instead catching one  
of the bawdy whores about the waist and seating her on his lap. "Thou art  
a Scotsman, aye? We don't oft see your people here."  
  
"I'm a man of many travels," MacBeth explained, taking a swig of  
warm ale, "but I am a Scot, born and bred."  
  
Shakespeare ignored the wench playing with his beard, and looked  
at MacBeth with eyes sparkling with interest. "Verily, art thou? Not an   
agent of the Scots King, I hope?" He hiccuped.  
  
MacBeth chuckled. "Nay. I know nothing of the King of Scots --   
though perhaps I did once." He said the last few words more softly, and  
Shakespeare couldn't hear him over the din caused by yet another brawl.  
"Prithee, good sir, your story!" Shakespeare implored him as his  
whore nibbled at his throat. MacBeth shrugged, staring dismally at the  
nearly empty cup in front of him. Nearby, the brawl ended when one man   
punched another so hard that his opponent spat teeth.  
  
"My story? It starts with a woman, what story doesn't?"  
  
This seemed terribly humorous to Shakespeare, who laughed so hard  
that ale came out his nose. "By Saint Mary!" he howled, "I see thou art  
familiar with the wanton ways of women. Tell me of yours, and I shall   
return the favor." Shakespeare leaned forward conspiratorily, and MacBeth  
smiled despite himself.  
  
"She was a beast!"  
  
"Spirited hellcat, was she?" Shakespeare shook his head, giving  
his giggly wench a pinch on her plump buttocks. "Mayhap she would've  
gotten along famously with my wife! My Anne, God bless her, would laugh  
at the Devil on her way to Hell."  
  
MacBeth chuckled in his secret way. "Aye, she was verily like  
Bellona herself, more and more warlike. No shame, but not skilless. The  
lady -- though, by troth, could hardly she be called lady -- was more  
vicious and faithless than any I have e'er known. Oft have we met in  
opposition, and I have yet to best her. But, so too, has she yet to best  
me. She belongs to a rash race, but I am of a vengeful nature."  
  
"The name of this terrible woman, I beseech you." Shakespeare  
replaced his previous whore, who was now half-asleep and completely   
drunk, with a fresher wanton.   
  
MacBeth slid his empty tankard across the table, searching for  
someone to refill it. "Demona, if you can believe that."  
  
"Demona!" crowed Shakespeare, "too perfect, more perfect! I must  
remember that one." With that, he reached into one of his many pockets   
and produced a piece of scratch paper, upon which he wrote the names  
"Demona" and "MacBeth", so he would not forget them later.   
  
"She deserved such a name," MacBeth grumbled darkly, "Bah! How  
reechy it is in here!" He fanned away some of the foul smoke from his  
nose, but it didn't seem to bother Shakespeare.   
  
Their conversation was broken up when someone began a rousing  
rendition of "Queen's Round" and Shakespeare felt compelled to join in  
the chorus. Pulling MacBeth to his feet, he convinced the Scotsman to  
participate as well:  
  
"Long may she reign  
In majesty glorious,  
Ever victorious,  
God save the Queen!"  
  
After finishing the verse, Shakespeare slumped back down into  
his seat, his forehead shining with perspiration. Wine sweat, thought  
MacBeth, noting that his companion seemed to be fond of the cups. Several  
men loitered nearby, and he kept one suspicious eye on them; they looked  
to be cutpurses, like as not. A serving girl had finally approached their  
table, and MacBeth got a fresh cup of ale.  
  
"Grammercy," murmured Shakespeare, his eyes shining like stars  
from the wine, women, and song. "I thank thee for sharing this most  
marvelous carousing with me, foul tosspot that I am. Ere, I leave, a   
toast! Will you share it with me?"  
  
MacBeth raised his tankard good-naturedly and touched it to  
Shakespeare's as the auburn-headed man solemnly intoned, "A toast, to  
Demona and Anne, the two most vengeful harpies ever spat out of Hell!   
Aye, and we love them for it."  
  
"Aye," intoned MacBeth as their tankards bumped together, sending  
a few drops of ale to splatter on the table. Slowly, Shakespeare rose to  
his feet, swaying like a wind-blown leaf. He nodded at MacBeth.  
  
"Pray pardon me, but it betimes, and I must needs return to my  
drudgery. S'wounds! I do humbly thank thee for thine excellent company.  
Belike, I shall see thee on the morrow?"  
  
"Mayhap," rumbled MacBeth, who was feeling a bit light-headed  
himself. Shakespeare bowed somewhat unsteadily, and then nodded to the  
wench as well, who had passed out and was snoring up a storm. He then  
began to make his way towards the tavern door.  
  
"I shall see thee anon, good sir!" he called back before he left.  
MacBeth bowed slightly, his eyes sparkling with amusement, and  
he rumbled, "Aye, anon."  
  
FINIS 


End file.
